Beowolf
by Eirien Mereneliel
Summary: The Third Age is past, but Middle-Earth is not peaceful. A terror haunts the once-great hall of Meduseld, and the old stories are not true...
1. Prologue

Title: Beowolf

Author: Eirien Mereneliel :)

Rated: PG-13 for epic battle scenes and some scary images ;)  
(in other words, it's nigh on impossible to use the story of Beowulf nonviolently… ;) )

Disclaimers: Many of the characters, places, etc.  are the property of J.R.R. Tolkien, Seamus Haney, and the anonymous author of the poem Beowulf.  This interpretation of the story and the original characters are mine :)

Summary:  The Third Age is past, but Middle-Earth is not peaceful. A terror haunts the once-great hall of Meduseld, and the old stories are not true...

_Prologue_

So.  The Spear-Danes in days long gone by

Fought with bravery in the bloody fields of war.

Hrothgar, their mighty king, conquered many nations,

Building a strong empire in the darkness of middle-earth.

So goes the holied tale the harper always sings.

Yet, he intones tearfully, there was a time of defeat,

Old alliances forgotten, feigning friendliness, the people

Of the White City came, converging on our borders,

Endangering the Riddermark, ruining the peace.

And there was worse.  For from the smoking eastern pools

Came Grendel, shadow-beast, the epitome of cruelty.

Left alone in defeat in the wars of the Third Age.  

He plagued our curséd hall for twelve long years:

No more Meduseld, the golden mead-hall of our fathers,

But Heorot, forsaken, palace of the hunted hart.

Hark not to the harper, for he will tell you lies;

Tall fish-stories grown from years of their retelling.

I was alive then, though none remember me for

Who I really am.

                           Let me tell you then,

For I remember well.  Listen now to the true tale.


	2. Chapter 1

She awoke with a start, desperately digging her palms into her eyes to clear away the nightmares that lingered in her waking mind.  

Be brave, and be quiet…when I tell you, run for the city…do not cry, do not stop…

_What is it, little one?  Where did you come from?  Where is your mother? _

She is not safe here…it knows her scent, it will hunt her down…take her to Meduseld… 

Hear ye people, I do take the child Wealtheow as my ward, to be my daughter and a member of my family so long as my house shall last… 

A sharp reproachful bark tore the images from her mind, and she looked up to see Beow sitting by her pallet like one of the watch-wolves of myth, his slanted golden eyes regarding her with piercing concern.  She wrapped her little arms about his neck, sobbing into his thick fur.  He remained still and strong until her tears subsided.  

"It's me, isn't it?" she whispered.  "I'm why the Grendel came…I'm why he comes to the mead-hall…"

Beow listened intently.  She clung tighter.  "Who am I, Beow?  I can't be one of the Scyldings, I'm not even sure of my name--"

All of a sudden, Beow's ears cocked toward the sleeping-room door.  Seizing Wealtheow's collar in his teeth, he sprang up and pulled her behind the statue of the King of old.  Théoden's left hand was on his sword, his right arm thrust forward in protective warning. The footsteps in the hall were audible now, heavy and wet, as if Leviathan himself had climbed to Edoras.  The air was heavy with the odours of blood and yellowstone, filth and ash…

Boom.  

The sleepers on their pallets stirred slightly, but none awoke.  

Boom. 

Deep cracks rent the ornate door-carvings asunder like lightning-bolts.  The walls shuddered.

Boom. 

With the roar of a thousand splinters bursting, the door shattered, and the shadow-beast entered, swiftly and silently as a cloud over the moon.  


	3. Chapter 2

            Wealtheow pressed her back against the old king's granite cloak, shaking convulsively.  The smell was overpowering, and she could not move.  Her hand gripped Beow's fur as if he were the one solid thing that stood between her and Grendel.  And indeed he was.  A ragged sob of terror began to form in her throat—

            The sigh rent the air like a death-scream, a soft tortured farewell to life.  And then the sound- a horrible noise, the crunch of tooth parting bone, accompanied by the slap of flesh on the stone floor.  And Grendel feasted on those Wealtheow loved.  

            She would not have it.

            Her lungs filled with acrid fumes, and she stood, trembling with emotion so different and strong that even Beow gave way before her as she stepped from behind the king.  

But her knees nearly gave when she saw Grendel. 

            He crouched, a fetid mass of bloodied scale and clotted hair, over a pallet in a room so changed as to be hardly recognizable.  Blood streamed as if from the very walls, gushing forth from piled arms and clumped fragments of unrecognizable flesh.  The monster bent over a face she could hardly recognize, rending skin and eye and red-gold hair.  She staggered, but her fingers found security.  Beow was beside her, steadying her hand.  

            Grendel looked up.  

            Child faced monster on the hellish field of ambush.  He leered, and redness dripped from his grinning jaws.  Here was the one, the last one.  She would never have the chance to cry out.  Grendel dropped the mutilated skull in his claws and crept forward…

            The sudden light, clear as a newborn star, erupted before him, bright and pure, driving back the shadow-clouds like a wave of riders sweeping over the enemy.  Wealtheow saw it reflected in the beast's terrified, blinded eyes as it gleamed on the matted blood that was slathered over him.  

            And Grendel, monster of the darkest night, fled.  


	4. Chapter 3

Wealtheow blinked hard, but she could not stop the tears from coming. She folded the last of Ceorl's shirts, cream-coloured, and still bearing the stain of his deathblood. She put it softly in the pile, her body convulsing with unwept sobs. Next were Terith's frocks. Yesterday they had skipped down together to the sunlit field below Edoras to pick simbelmynë to place on the graves of those who had fallen trying to stem the nightly attacks. Wealtheow wrapped her arms around her knees and rocked back and forth, finally giving into the tears that had been hurling themselves against her sea-blue eyes.  
  
Strong arms gently encircled her, pulling the little girl close in a comforting hug. She buried her face in her friend's chest and sobbed. A strange tremor caused her to look up; Hrothulf was crying too. He closed his eyes for a long moment, forcing back his tears, and then said to her, with a grieving smile, "Theow, let's get Hrethric and Hrothmund and ride awhile. I need to get away from here, and I'm sure you little ones do too. . . we can pack a lunch and take Hasuwine and Eotheod. . ."  
  
Wealtheow nodded through the ocean in her deep blue eyes and stood up, giving Hrothulf a quick hug. Silently she went to find her foster- brothers. They would be helping to prepare the armour of the lost.  
  
Running her fingers through Hasuwine's mist-grey mane, Wealtheow gazed at the fields stretched out beyond the gate of Edoras. The grasses danced like living sunlight, twirling with the zephyrs in waves of brilliant gold. The sight lifted her heart, and she forgot for a moment the white and scarlet of death.  
  
Beow trotted easily alongside the horses, sniffing the clear scent of the air.  
  
"And where are you going, Hrothulf?"  
  
Hrothulf reined in Hasuwine, and Hrethric beside them did likewise. Eotheod pranced in place, impatient to leave the hall of slaughter.  
  
"Down to the fields for simbelmynë; what concern is that of yours, Unferth?"  
  
Unferth leaned on his carven staff, every muscle in his body belligerent, challenging. "None. But I cannot help but wonder, why you, two less than a score in years, would spend your time with ones hardly a quarter of your age."  
  
"They are my family, all I have left."  
  
"You have the king; you are his brother-son. Perhaps you would ingratiate yourself; perhaps you want to be his elect as the next ruler?"  
  
Hrothulf jerked Hasuwine to face Unferth, trembling with anger, forcing his words out through teeth clenched in rage. "I do not. I would not rule if I were given the choice freely. My cousins are more my friends than those of my years. And besides, they do not speak incessantly of battle. They prefer life to death."  
  
Unferth waved the barb aside with all the appearance of calm, but his eyes darkened in fury. "You are afraid then, of wyrd?"  
  
"No. But death is not all that fate has to offer."  
  
"You are strange, Hrothulf. You spend your days with children and old ones, dreaming of things that never were. You discount the highest aim of any man, and scorn battle. Methinks 'tis naught but fear that keeps you from facing the monster. Naught but cowar-"  
  
"I note, Unferth, that you have not chosen to fight Grendel either. If I am a coward, then so are you. And so is Hrothgar. And so is every living man in this citadel." Hrothulf spurred Hasuwine around and rode through the gates, death-pale with rage. Eotheod followed, the two boys on his back gazing over their shoulders at Unferth, who savagely kicked at a frail star-flower that struggled for life on the rocky hillside.  
  
Wealtheow craned her head back to look into her foster-cousin's face. "Why did Unferth say those things? He knows too that no-one may kill the shadow- beast."  
  
Hrothulf looked at her thoughtfully, smiling a little at her innocence. "Sometimes, Theow, when people lose all that they love, they become very angry with the whole world, and even they do not know fully why. It is easy to forget starlight and sunset when you are grieving. The shadow clings to your heart, and does not go away. . . We used to be friends, Unferth and I." He gazed out at the free meadows, lost in memory.  
  
"Did Grendel. . ."  
  
"When the monster first came, six years ago, Unferth's house was one of the first he attacked. Unferth was very badly wounded when the door fell, and watched the shadow-beast feed on his family, completely helpless. I don't think he has ever forgiven himself for neither saving them nor dying in the attempt, even though it was not his fault."  
  
"But Ilúvatar will have forgiven him."  
  
"There was nothing to forgive. And I think that Unferth ceased to believe in Eru and the Valar when his family was slain. He doesn't even accept the existence of the Old Stories anymore; says that they are nothing but myths created by the Gondorians to bring our people under their rule."  
  
"But they are true, Hrothulf?"  
  
"Yes, lass, they are." He smiled. "Shall I tell you then of how the White Lady defeated the Witch-King, the servant of darkness whom no man could slay?"  
  
"Please!"  
  
Wealtheow's eyes glowed with sapphire excitement while Hrothulf recounted the story. The little princes listened in, hardly able to mind their horse, so captivated were they by the tale. And the winds of Rohan blew the shadows from the hearts of the four riders, as they sailed the sunlit sea of gold. 


End file.
